The factory didn’t work out. However, as we wove through the streets of Little Village, the Padre began to casually comment on our surroundings. Soon, my enthusiasm coupled with his knack for teaching morphed our late night drive into a tour of Little Village and Pilsen through the eyes of the Padre. It was all the more fitting and intense because it was night and all the places we passed were dimly lit. We passed the corner café in Pilsen where anarchists meet. We passed sites of the immigration raids: quiet neighborhoods and shopping centers, chilling in the dark. The Padre described one night time raid, when ICE henchmen stormed 300 homes in the area and helicopters buzzed over head. We drove down 26th Street; empty except for a few loiterers at the bus stop. A few years ago, Padre said, the area had boasted a busy night life. Now, policemen had started camping out down the street from clubs; waiting to pounce on late night revelers heading home. The Padre talked, too, about the gangs that plagued the neighborhood—the 26ers and the Latin Kings, among others.
We left Little Village, returning to Pilsen, where the Padre pointed out his favorite bars and restaurants, telling me a little bit about the management and cuisine of each. From there, we entered the newly gentrified lands of U of I- Chicago students: small art galleries, new condos and Starbucks. Five years ago, it wasn’t like this, he said. I marveled once again at Chicago’s capacity for urban renewal, the rebuilding of spaces and the displacement of people.
The Padre drove me right to my doorstep. I thanked him, head still spinning from all that I had seen and heard.
No comments:
Post a Comment